


Sleeves

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Family Business Tattoo Parlor gets a new customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there's probably a veritable boatload of tattoo procedure failure here, and i apologize. i have no tattoos.
> 
> i'm fairly sure this is going to turn into a wip, although for now let's just call it a stand alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this fic was actually inspired by [this](http://daydreamingfreak.tumblr.com/post/67575272392) picture sent to me by a friend. she asked for a 'little ficlet' to go with the picture, and in typical fashion, i wrote almost 4k and counting. opa.

It’s not professional to fuck up a tattoo just because you’re checking out the customer.

Dean wishes he could amend that rule, if only because the customer in this case is really, incredibly, _exceptionally_ hot. The way his nose scrunches just a little bit, the clench in his jaw as he’s biting his teeth together to stave off the pain. His eyes are a bright, crisp blue, steely with determination, and Dean appreciates the gritty guys just as much as the ones who practically tremble through their first ink.

But this guy, though. This guy’s been through it before. Aside from the obvious other tattoos adorning his torso (and probably… other places) Dean knows the look. The practiced way of brushing off the pain, the forced steady breathing. Aside from a few ticks here and there when Dean hits an especially sensitive spot, he could be meditating.

Castiel is his name, and when Dean had badly joked, “and getting tattoos is your game?” with an appreciative nod towards the rather grotesque, frayed rope inked around his neck, he had just earned himself a slitted gaze and uncomfortable silence.

“I hear you’re the best,” Castiel had said, dark rimmed eyes looking Dean up and down across the counter like he wanted to take a bite out of him. And yeah, maybe Dean’s a sucker for someone who looks like they could fuck him against the nearest wall without breaking a sweat, and maybe his knees were a little weak behind the counter from a mere glance, but hey, he’s still a badass. He’s kicked some heads in in his day. It’s kind of impossible to avoid when running a tattoo parlor.

He threw on the humility with as much grace as he could muster, smiled with a dismissive, “According to some.”

Castiel’s eyes had flashed, and he turned his head artfully, light catching on his multiple face piercings (eyebrow, nose, snake bites), and sniffed, disinterested, but Dean could see him practically jonesing for some ink.

“A client actually just cancelled on me,” Dean had informed him (which was a lie, actually. It was his day off and he was only in to pick up some documents, but hey, tattooing a guy like this was better than a day off, anyhow.) He arched an eyebrow, a challenge.

“Yes,” Castiel said immediately, fast enough to make Dean think he had heard wrong.

Dean tried to hide the genuine smile that was working its way across his face, replacing it with a smirk.

“I hadn’t even finished my sentence,” he said wryly, “but ok. Let’s get you set up.”

They had gone through the preliminary stuff, and when Dean had asked Cas(tiel) what he wanted, the guy had just looked at him and said, “surprise me.”

Dean had almost choked, but composed himself fast enough to say, “uh. Are you sure?”

Cas tilted his head, considering. “They say you’re good,” he said, “Prove it.”

Dean swallowed hard.

***

It would have helped if Cas had mentioned he wanted the tattoo on his hip bone, for christ’s sake. It would at least have prepared Dean slightly more than Cas just stripping off his shirt while his back was turned.

Cas’ left hip is pierced, two silver studs jutting out just so, (pants shoved down enough that Dean can easily get at the skin) and Dean is working on his right side. He’s actually sweating, and has his tongue jammed between his teeth so hard he’s afraid he’ll draw blood.  

Workplace erections are really, really awful. For the most part (along with gradually earned sexual maturity and incredibly loose jeans) Dean can keep them at bay, but in the line of work he’s in, it most definitely is a situation he still sometimes finds himself in. An unfortunate side effect of an otherwise great job.

To Dean, a generally closed off and emotionally hands free kind of guy, he has to say there’s something incredibly attractive in a person who gains pride through their body mods and art, like they’re baring their souls for the entire world to see. Not to mention the fact that bodies- and people, in general- are just so damn appealing.

And Cas, with his lined eyes and fifty million piercings and tattoos and smugness that hangs about him like a particularly demure coil of smoke from the end of a delicately held cigarette, the intricate map of art across his body down to the fucking heavy boots he clomped in here wearing --

Yeah. Dean feels like he knows the guy already, could know him and never stop _wanting_ to know him. He’s a sucker for confidence, drawn to self-assurance like a moth to a flame.

Not all tattoos have stories or meaning behind them, Dean knows. In his spare seconds before putting the needle back to skin, he’s been examining the tattoos covering Cas’ torso, trying to figure out which ones are which. Cas has a great variety of images splashed across his chest, full of abstract forms that look like hellish and divine deities fighting an all-out multidimensional war on some sort of ethereal, foggy battleground. There are the faces of devils and angels and demons splayed across his skin, fighting the (good?) fight, beams of light opening in the opaque, grey sky above them all, shining down on select warriors like they are the chosen ones who will lead their species to victory. The scene wraps around his back, over his ribcage and all the way up to the base of his neck, where a pink moon sits at the top of his spine, capping off the ink. The canvas below, on his back, is a continuation of the scene from the front, free formed deities with lightning in their hands and sheathed in armor made from no manmade material Dean can discern. Some of them look more bestial than human, some more _other_ , alien. Dean can’t tell what they’re fighting over, but there’s fire and smoke in the background, sinkholes opening up and cracks in the earth forming. Not a human in sight, from what Dean can tell, but all the troops who are down bleed regardless.

There’s a figure right above the hip Dean is working on, decidedly androgynous, obviously a celestial being of some kind. A soft light emanates from their form, face benevolent. They’re undeniably a part of the fight, but somehow removed from it. They aren’t wearing armour, but swathed in a soft gray robe. They look like they’re waiting.

The entire scene almost looks like one of those overcrowded Renaissance paintings, with a decidedly softer color palate and harsher subject matter.

Cas’ arms, though; his sleeves. Those are a different story.

Jade twisting, curling, reaching stems, circling his arms and crisscrossing like a particularly unruly city grid complete with roundabouts and construction zones and parks that have been abandoned since those classified experiments in the 50s. Vines that hug his forearms and biceps, not mirror images, but continuations of each other, even though they never cross the expanse of his torso to meet. Dean thinks of the Garden of Eden, of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. He’s sweating already, but the emeralds of the plant life make him think of jungles, steamy southern climates he’s never visited, but it’s not hard to picture the heavy mist of rainforests coating him, making the short hair at the back of his neck curl and dark spots appear on his tshirt. Bright blooms appear at seemingly random intervals, huge, cheerful flowers of varying shades from the color palate of a particularly striking sunset. They’re beautifully textured; a big purple one right above Cas’ left elbow looks fuzzy to the touch, like the softness of a lamb’s ear, while there’s a deadly looking yellow one, smaller, spikey looking, just off to the side of his wrist.

The grand design of the vines ends at his wrists, but skinnier tendrils snake across the backs of his hands, two intertwining as they follow the path through each knuckle- some following the lines of his veins, some not- and end right before the cuticle of his fingernails. From there, the two tendrils break apart, tracing just outside line of his nails, and then come together again, around to meet at the tops of his fingertips, where each tip has its own specific plant or flower, making it looks like Cas has been kissed by Mother Nature herself, one chaste peck for each soft fingertip.

Flowers grow out of his fingertips; life bleeds from his palm anew and green.

He is a garden.

Dean is suddenly unsure of his own contribution to the incredible mosaic that is Castiel. It seems paltry by comparison.

The needle stills, hovers, and Cas looks down, not at the tattoo, but at Dean. His expression is bold, playful.

“Don’t tell me you’re finished yet,” he mocks, borderline scornful. There is no real heat to it. “From what I’ve heard, the famous Dean Winchester _never_ finishes this fast.”

Dean flicks his gaze upward to meet Cas’, doing his best to refuse to be flustered.

“No worries,” he says, edging the words in steel because Cas looks like he can take it, “What I do is _art_ , Castiel,” he continues, putting emphasis where emphasis is needed. “True art takes time. Consideration.” He presses a palm to Cas’ flat stomach to steady him, even though he’s solid as a rock already. “Care.” He finishes, emboldened, and gets back to work.

It’s only the buzz of the needle for the next few minutes and the quiet rock station that’s playing from the speakers. Dean allows himself to fall back into his work, relishing the familiarity of his shop and the comforting vibration of the tool in his palm. Being surrounded by the warm, rusty tone of the walls with dark wooden trim, framed photos of the best of the artists in the shop adorning the walls, Dean is in his element. The couches in the waiting area are a chocolate brown, coffee colored, with dark bamboo magazine racks and potted plants filling the rest of the space. Dean can’t see it from here, but he knows it like the back of his hand, the sign out front that says, “The Family Business Tattoo Parlour”.

He’s here doing what he loves, and clients like Cas, ones that provide a challenge, one with an attitude like that, are the clients that remind him of why he loves this job so much in the first place. Tattooing is about more than being able to draw, to ink. More than a steady hand. It’s about reading people, what they want and what they might not even realize they want.

Cas seems like the kind of guy who definitely knows the former, and maybe even the latter. But he also seems like the kind of guy who Dean can push the limits with a little, who would probably _like_ to be pushed. Cas is one of those people with a little extra, Dean thinks. Like that added flick of the wrist he’s seen Lisa use when she’s putting on eyeliner, or the way Jo can throw a bullseye in darts without even looking at the board. Dean’s had the incredible luck throughout his life to surround himself with people like Lisa and Jo, like Sam and Benny and Victor, all with that _extra_.

He thinks maybe he has a knack for seeking it out, or maybe it’s the other way around and constantly seeks _him_ out for some reason.

Whatever the reason, Dean can feel it. Cas has that extra layer, that trait and _oomph_ that Dean always finds himself drawn to.

It’s an amazing feeling, that connection. Coupled with the fact that Cas has hip bones that make Dean want to cry and eyes that could drill into him better than some dicks, and it’s like his brain is searing, blazing out behind his eyeballs because it knows its seen the best it’ll ever see and it’s all downhill from here.

Cas interrupts his train of thought with a quietly observed, “You don’t have any tattoos… no visible ones, anyways.”

“Yeah?” Dean says mildly, like he doesn’t already fucking know that.

“It’s just…” Cas winces minutely as Dean passes over a fairly sensitive spot, and Dean feels the muscles of Cas’ abdomen jump beneath his hand. “You’re a tattoo artist,” he says, sounding genuinely curious.

Dean shrugs with the side that’s not currently handling a tattoo gun.

“I am,” he confirms, trying to ignore the squirming in his gut. It’s not the first time someone has mentioned his remarkably ink free skin, but it _is_ the first time he thinks he might not mind someone actually mentioning it.   

Cas makes a noise of assent, but doesn’t push it. They lapse back into silence while Dean contemplates whether or not to pick up the dropped conversation thread.

Ah, fuck it, he thinks.

“My dad ran this place before me,” he explains, without taking his eyes off the emerging tattoo, and then chuckles. “I suppose the name of the place probably gave that away already.” He licks his lips nervously as he can practically _hear_ Cas’ interest peak. “Ex-navy, covered in ink, professional and not so. He was a great artist, an alright guy, and kind of a shitty dad. After all, I learned almost everything I know from him.” He takes his hand off Cas’ abdomen to wipe his palm on his pants leg, then leaves it on his thigh. He realizes belatedly that maybe that last statement was a little too pointed, or maybe the strokes were too broad. Either way, it’s an uncomfortable small moment of self-reflection.

“Anyways,” he blusters on, “Tattoos always seemed a little too, uh, permanent for me.” He shrugs half-heartedly, _what can ya do?_ “What can I say, I’m your typical jerk with commitment issues that extend way past any kind of relationship outside myself.” He tries to undercut this explanation with as much dismissive non-chalance as he can, because while his words may be honest, his tone doesn’t have to be. Also, pouring your heart out to a client is almost as unprofessional as a workplace boner, so he’s really trying not to go oh-for-two here.

“What about you, man?” Dean asks, before Cas can comment on his own story. “Those are some pretty sick designs.”

Dean sees Cas’ chest collapse as he huffs a laugh out his nose, can picture the rueful shaking of his head.

“Bible study,” he says, and laughs again. Dean holds the needle steady until Cas’ breathing evens out, and then continues. “I went to Catholic school, church, and Sunday school as a kid. Suffice to say, I learned a lot about Christianity whether I wanted to or not. I got into drawing fairly early, and this is the product of a warped child’s version of their selective hearing when it comes to religion.”

“Pretty steep creative liberties, huh? Not that I’m saying it’s not some great work, because it is.”

“You’d be surprised at the amount of bloodshed I had to endure during my formative years.”

“That’s worrying.”

“So is global warming. Hey, I turned out okay.”

“That’s… less worrying?”

“There you go.”

Yeah, definitely an intriguing guy.

“What about the sleeves?” Dean asks, because Cas doesn’t seem averse to talking about this stuff. He’s ready to back off at the first sign of discomfort, but he’s not sure if Cas is designed to feel that particular emotion.

Cas laughs, almost self-consciously, which Dean thinks is interesting.

“Uh, flowers are fucking rad?” Cas says, _duh_ implied, and Dean snorts but thinks this might actually be a topic Cas isn’t willing to delve too deeply into. Also interesting. The guy tells him about his Catholic school upbringing and explains away the gore fest on his chest without blinking an eye but ask him about the pretty flowers on his arms and he clams right up.

“They’re beautiful,” Dean murmurs, because he’s not going to _not_ compliment the fucking gorgeous artistry staring him right in the face. It would be like staring at the northern lights and saying, ‘eh.’ “Did you design those as well?”

“Mmm,” Cas nods his assent. “Gardening is a hobby of mine.”

“Geeze,” Dean marvels, “Gardner, artist, walking canvas. I don’t usually make a fuss over clients, but you’re a pretty intriguing guy, Cas.”

“I’m the furthest thing from an artist,” Cas says mildly.

“Hey, man, don’t downplay it,” Dean chides gently. “This is some amazing work you’ve done. It’s something to be proud of.”

This is so incredibly outside his range of typical customer encounters. Even though in this line of work, he sometimes gets to know clients fairly intimately (doing intricate tattoos on an ass can really speed up the bonding process) things never usually take such a personal turn. He can talk flippantly about his work for as many hours as people ask him about it, but with Cas, it feels like this conversation really _means_ something. Even if it’s about something as simple and unremarkable as his life.

“You think?” Cas asks, and there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability in his tone that immediately tells Dean he didn’t get enough hugs when he was a kid.  “Speaking of work,” Cas continues, rambling over any possible comfort Dean can offer, “how’s it going down there?”

That’s a phrase Dean is definitely going to have echoing around in his head for the next ten years at least. He clears his throat.

“Uh… We’re… done, actually.” Dean says, surprised. Sometimes, depending on the tattoo, on the client and circumstances, he kind of zones out, lets his hands do the work he’s fairly certain they were created to do.

“Oh.” Cas says, and for a moment he seems disappointed, and then his eyes cast down to the new tattoo on his hip, and he goes incredibly still.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says again.

Dean’s incredibly nervous. As he’s going through his- and he fucking hates thinking like this because it’s so goddamn pretentious but it’s fucking true- _process,_ he doesn’t ever doubt himself. It’s always that split second when the client sees their completed tattoo for the first time, and he’s not sure his heart is ever going to get used to it. Even though clients generally love it (there was that incident a couple years back with the guy who wanted an “Asian” tattoo that said “wellness” and it’s not Dean’s fucking fault if he gave him the wrong symbols and now has the Cantonese phrase for soup tattooed on his ankle) it doesn’t change that one, genuine moment of fear.

There’s an excruciating silence in the shop for an entire minute. Cas is frozen, staring at the tattoo, and Dean feels himself start to sweat. Oh, god, he shouldn’t have gotten so sucked into the conversation; Cas is going to think the lines are sloppy, he’s going to hate the colors, he’s going to hate the design, he’s going to hate _everything_.

“I feel like, it um… connects them, but, uh, not obviously? I know that um, I hope I didn’t overstep but it kind of seemed like the way to go and I really liked that, uh, angel or whatever it is right above so I tried incorporating it… um…”

Dean swears he’s a professional. Really.

The tattoo itself is a little different than any Dean’s done before. He started from the very bottom of the scene on Cas’ torso, right under the feet of the figure in the gray robe. Gnarled roots twist out of the souls of their feet; ugly, knotted things. They are the roots of the upside down tree that extends a couple inches down and around Cas’ hipbone, ending in branches that are devoid of leaves. In their place, there are feathers. Tons of small ones, no longer than a fingernail and no thicker than the scroll wheel on a mouse. They are all done in the same colors as the scene on Cas’ torso, soft purples and reds and oranges. Further up the tree (or down, depending on your point of view) the feathers blacken and curl, like the pages of a burning book. Eventually, the very tips of the tree have broken off, charcoal black, and have morphed into the silhouettes of birds, flying upwards and outwards across the expanse of Cas’ hipbone, triumphant.

Dean thinks it’s some kind of weird interpretation of a phoenix, but he’s going to keep his mouth shut until Cas actually _says_ something.

Slowly, _agonizingly slowly_ , Cas raises his gaze to Dean’s.

“It’s… magnificent.” he says quietly, awed. “Completely and utterly magnificent, Dean.”

“I- wow. Um. Thanks.” Dean says, the relief swooping out of him and melting into embarrassed humility so fast it’s almost dizzying. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, trying not to blush. “I thought the figure there,-” he points to the gray robed being, “-was like, an angel or something, so I figured it would be appropriate.”

Cas’ eyes go wide.

“Dean…” he says, in the tone of someone telling seven year old Timmy the reason he won’t be getting a surprise party this year, “That figure? That’s Death.”

Utter silence. Hearing-a-pin-drop silence.

Then, “Oh.” Dean says. “Wow.” Again. “Wow.” Now with emphasis. “ _Wow_.”

“It, um…  It makes sense, though,” Cas says hurriedly. “Like, for me, for this scene, Death is the good guy, y’know? The only one in their right mind, really. He’s here to take these soldiers away from the suffering, and the idea with the feathers? And the birds? It’s like they’re going to finally be free.” Cas smiles fully, for the first time since he walked in. “It’s an amazing fit, really. Absolutely amazing.”

Dean feels his own eyes go wide, and he’s frozen solid for another couple seconds before saying, one more time, “Wow.” He robotically goes for the cleanup kit, and readies a bandage to put over the finished tattoo.

“I can see why they call you the best, now,” Cas hums, and Dean can feel his eyes on him as he gently cleans the area. “It’s like you instinctively knew what I wanted.”

Dean swallows hard.

“Yeah?” he says, throat suddenly gone dry again.

He feels Cas nod as he _mmm_ s in assent.

He finishes the aftercare in silence, dresses the tattoo properly. He gives the spiel on at-home aftercare, even though he’s pretty sure Cas knows the deal by now. Cas pays at the desk. Dean walks him to the door, even though it’s literally ten steps away from the desk and he usually waves goodbye from behind the counter.

Cas hovers, hand reaching out to push open the door, but he stops halfway through the action. He glances at Dean, who feels like he’s currently sitting on a live wire.

They remain in limbo for long enough that it becomes extraordinarily awkward, and then Cas seems to finally give up and practically launches forward, crowding Dean against the wall.

“Girlfriend?” he asks, while Dean’s brain short circuits. “Boyfriend? Poly? It’s complicated?” Dean has literally zero words to answer Cas with, and Cas rolls his eyes. “Dean, I’m asking if this is okay,” he says pointedly, gesturing between the two of them.

Dean gets his brain back online enough to say, “Yeah, yeah it’s pretty fucking okay.”

And they’re off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex. that's it that's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've become aware that apparently there are many tattoo artist!dean and artist!cas fics currently going around. this is an excellent development and i'm very glad to hear it. cheers to us all.

Dean manages to keep the guise of semi non-respectable professionalism going for about zero point two seconds as he manages to spit out, “My office,” and spares less than half a second worrying about how the fused unit they’ve created is incredibly susceptible to bumping into things around the main floor.

“Where?” Cas asks in the short moment between prying his mouth away from Dean’s and then reapplying with vigor. What’s that thing it says on the back of all sunscreen bottles? Reapply every two hours? If you add in the kissing and current friction waging a war in Dean’s jeans and take away everything that constitutes sunscreen and then multiply by six there’d probably be a successful formula in there somewhere for rubbing the nasty bits together.

“Up,” Dean grits out, and then thinks a synapse in his brain pops when Cas’ hand fists in his hair and yanks a little.

There’s warmth emanating from Cas’ palms fitted to his sides and a slick mouth making its way down Dean’s throat, stopping to mouth at his Adam’s Apple. Dean moans, can feel the vibration pass from his throat to Cas’ lips and back, creating the most delicious feedback, like he’s swallowed an amp hooked up to Geddy Lee’s scrawny frame, _YYZ_ blaring out of the speakers like an asteroid on fire and screaming as it plummets into the atmosphere.

“Up where?” Cas’ breath puffs against the trail he just licked up Dean’s neck, and Dean feels the shiver drip all the way down to his toes. Cas sticks a knee between his thighs, and Dean tries and fails to prevent himself from grinding down onto it. Mindful of the bandage under Cas’ shirt, Dean presses his mouth to Cas’ collarbone, dipping his tongue in the divot at the center of the bone. If there wasn’t a wall currently at his back, he’s fairly sure he would have crumpled to the floor by now.

“Office,” Dean pants, after nipping at one of Cas’ protruding collarbones- right where his sleeve starts, actually. Dean can see the green vines creeping around the edges of his shirt. “More sanitary.”

Cas pulls back to grin at him, eyes glinting. His hair is fucked, and Dean’s not quite sure how that happened, since he doesn’t remember running his hands through it yet. He’s been too busy mapping the lithe body through Cas’ shirt and too drawn to his body heat to focus on much else.

“There’s nothing sanitary about what we’re about to do,” Cas says wryly, eyes dark and voice hoarse. His lips-chapped when he came in- are slick and spit shiny, puffed and pink, and Dean feels his own tongue peek out between his teeth in response.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dean assures him, and his raging almost-there erection is screaming at him to hurry the fuck up with the formalities as he grabs Cas’ hand and leads him across the main floor to the narrow staircase at the back.

“You’re not even going to close the store?” he asks, smirking, as he pushes Dean against the wall again to hungrily nip at his bottom lip. Dean wraps a hand around the back of Cas’ neck, pulls him down towards his neck. He feels Cas’ mouth start working, finally threads a hand through his dark hair, thick and wild.

“It was already closed,” Dean informs him, smug, and he feels the smirk fall off Cas’ face as one crawls onto his. “A little too eager to see me to read the sign, huh?”

Cas takes a moment to respond, as he’s found a spot right under the bolt of his jaw that makes Dean’s hips jerk forward involuntarily.

“Yeah, well, you could have kicked me out at any time,” he says, and Dean feels the thrill of victory shoot through him at the almost-hidden petulance in Cas’ voice. The success is short lived, however, as one of Cas’ hands skirt down his back, rubbing the fabric of his t-shirt between his fingers, and then, without warning, groping his ass. Dean yelps before he can stop himself, and the next glimpse he gets of Cas’ face, the guy is grinning the most annoyingly arousing shit-eating grin Dean’s ever laid eyes on.

“Shut up,” he groans, Cas rutting up against him obscenely, kissing along the shoulder seam of Dean’s t-shirt, leaving a trail of wet marks.

“I didn’t say anything,” he murmurs, muffled by the cotton of the shirt.

“Mmhmm,” Dean fists his hands in Cas’ hair, puts a finger under his chin to draw him back towards his mouth. Cas complies eagerly, tongue snaking in and warring with Dean’s for dominance. Cas wins when he slides his tongue along the backs of Dean’s top row of teeth, dragging it back towards the roof of his mouth and then pulling out again just before it becomes too much. Dean feels a whine of protest slide past his lips, and mentally files it away to be ashamed of later. He’s a little busy having an incredible hard on right now to worry about dignity.

Cas’ other hand drifts down to palm his ass as well, kneading it through the denim of his jeans, and Dean gasps into his mouth, desperately trying to grind their dicks together through at least four layers of clothes. He can feel his nerve endings sparking all the way up and down his spine, fuses blowing over and over again like he’s caught in some sort of cruel and beautiful time loop.

Dean follows suit, slipping his palms into the back pockets of Cas’ jeans and grabbing his own handfuls of ass. (Not that Dean would say anything, but Cas is all lithe, wiry muscle, enough so that it’s almost a workout for Dean to get any handfuls of _anything_.) He catches one of Cas’ lip piercings between his teeth, tugging gently, and Cas groans, hands flexing on his ass. Dean has to admit, the piercings are pretty fucking incredible, offering up a whole host of other possibilities. He runs his finger down the line of hoops in Cas’ ear, and chuckles at the sound they make as they clink together.

“Someone could play you like a xylophone, you know that?” He teases, moving his palm to the back of Cas’ neck, as Cas puts a hand under Dean’s knee and hooks it around his waist.

“I’m expecting that someone to be you,” Cas says mildly as the new angle allows him to line their cocks up through their jeans, and Dean’s knees threaten to give out.

“I- ah- _fuck_ ,” he gasps out, and quietly thanks whatever forces are at work in this tattoo parlour that have allowed a wall to come up between him and practically swooning into a heap on the floor.

Cas rolls his hips against Dean, the friction delicious, and Dean has one sweaty hand pressed flat against the wall, threating to slip at any minute, his other still cupping the back of Cas’ neck, the two of them trading harsh breaths as they dry hump the fuck out of each other. They’re not really kissing anymore, mouths just open and sliding together with no finesse or skill.

“We- fuck! Fuuu---, _office, Cas_ ,” he barely manages to whine into Cas’ mouth, as Cas’ hip ministrations continue, sending heat flooding into Dean’s abdomen. Dean drops his head back, clunking it against the wall, and Cas jumps at the opportunity, sucking his way up and down Dean’s neck and jaw with abandon. They’re lined up lips to knees, now, all the important parts touching and rubbing. Dean can feel the heat of Cas’ erection on his thigh, and the image of actually wrapping his fist around Cas’ cock and jacking it, slow, fast, who the fuck cares, almost makes him lose it right there. He puts both hands on Cas’ shoulders, moves him back a step.

Cas stares at him, hair mussed, eyes wide, lips absolutely fucked, incendiary. His chest is heaving, shirt gathered obviously in the places Dean’s been grasping at for the last fifteen minutes. His jeans are tented, lips wet and mouth open slightly, tongue peeking out.

It takes an incredible amount of will power for Dean to remember why he stopped in the first place, and as he’s trying to coax the words past the arousal that’s zinging across his skin like rogue Fourth of July sparklers, Cas ever so gently brushes his knuckles along the waistband of Dean’s jeans, fingers tripping along lightly, teasingly.

“Yes, Dean?” he asks, looking coquettishly ( _coquettishly_ , for god’s sake) up at him from under his lashes.

Oh, Dean is _so_ fucked.

Deep breath in through his nose, out through his—

And fuck that too.

He practically carries Cas up the stairs, even though Cas seems to be just as on board with the migration as Dean is (Dean’s pretty sure his cock is dancing a jig with a Santa hat on by now, so drunk on the warmth of sex that it’s announced its intention of buying everyone present another round), both of them loud, stumbling into each other as they go. Dean crashes through his office door, back first, Cas stuck to his front like a papoose. Dean backs up until the backs of his thighs bumps into his desk, and as Cas pulls his own shirt over his head, Dean takes the moment to clear his desk of things that are much much less important than the work that’s about to get done on it.

He turns back around, Cas is sans shirt, and fucking hot as hell holy _shit_ ; Lithe and toned and probably a personal trainer’s wet dream. It’s not like Dean didn’t totally just see Cas without a shirt half an hour ago—but the context is different now. He gets to _touch_ this. Run his hands along the hard lines of Cas’ pecks and suck on his lethal hipbones. Cas’ nipples are pink and peaked, and just begging to be attended to, and Dean is nothing if not eager to please. He swings Cas around, trading places, and crowds him up against the desk. Cas slips up and onto it, legs dangling carelessly off the edge, leaving his torso at Dean’s eye level, and therefore perfect for Dean to lean forward and kiss Cas’ nipple. Cas moans, digs his hands deeper into Dean’s hair, pulls a little harder, and Dean has to take a moment to calm down and palm himself through his jeans. He feels his eyes roll back into his head, half delirious with pleasure, even with such a small touch to his dick. He hears another moan, quieter this time, almost like Cas is in pain. He jerks his head up, and Cas’ eyes have grown darker, pupils huge.

“Your fucking-” Cas pulls him in again, kisses him sloppily at the same time as he attempts to rip Dean’s shirt off, practically tearing Dean’s nose off with it. “Your fucking _eyelashes_ _flutter_ ,” he says in disbelief, like this is some great, cosmic injustice being inflicted upon him by the universe.

Dean huffs laughter, trailing a line of kisses down the center of Cas’ chest, making sure to map every slope of skin and rise of muscle. Cas’ hands are roving over his now naked torso, fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise into his hips and spine. The thought of walking away from this bruised and battered makes Dean’s already incredibly excited dick twitch in excitement, and in a possibly pre-emptive move, he relocates a palm to Cas’ dick, massaging him through the denim. Judging by Cas’ stuttered breath and lack of complaints (but influx of swearing) Dean figures he’s doing something right.

He tongues at Cas’ left nipple, fist giving it small licks like a kitten lapping at milk, and Cas laughs breathily, encourages him with a gently guided hand on the back of the head to up the ante a little. Dean complies, sucks Cas’ nipple into his mouth and circles it with his tongue, mirroring the action on the other side of Cas’ chest with his hand. Cas arches his back, giving Dean easier access which he makes sure to take full advantage of.

They’re completely wrapped around each other, Cas’ hands clasped around Dean’s back, nails digging in, Dean with one palm spread wide between his shoulder blades and the other on the arch of his back for support. Cas’ legs are hooked around the top of his thighs, drawing him in impossibly closer, and Dean’s thrusting on instinct, Cas giving as good as he gets, even from a place of perceptibly less leverage.

Cas has his face buried in the crook between Dean’s neck and shoulder, breathing hot and wet against the skin there. Dean moves downwards from Cas’ nipple, hands trailing down Cas’ back as he does so. It’s been a while, but he’s pretty sure his slow, sinuous slide to his knees is somewhat well received at least. He runs his hands up and down Cas’ sides, almost chastely, like he’s warming him up after a day spent in the cold, making sure to throw a scrape of nails or two into the mix.

There’s an awkward moment of fumbling as Cas shoves his jeans and briefs halfway down his thighs, dick bouncing free, and Dean takes the opportunity to yank the pants off the rest of the way, tossing them and the underwear off into some unimportant far-flung corner of the room. Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s shoulders, digging his heels into the flesh of his back, almost toppling the both of them as one of his sweaty legs slips, almost kicking Dean in the face.

“Easy, there,” Dean murmurs as they both laugh breathlessly, hitching Cas’ leg back up with a quiet grin, nuzzling the crease between Cas’ upper thigh and pelvis.

He keeps his hands at Cas’ waist, thumbs brushing back and forth over Cas’ hipbones, idly thinking that if he’s not careful he could cut himself and bleed out right here, their sharp relief casting even sharper shadows across his skin.

But really, what a way to go, on his knees in the midst of some really great sex.

Cas’ cock is hovering in the corner of Dean’s vision, and the only reason he hasn’t spent more time mentally prepping himself for wrapping his lips around it is because he’s pretty sure he would blow his load right there. But as it stands, Cas’ dick is primed and ready, swollen with blood and leaving trails of shiny pre-come on his stomach. Dean can see how heavy his balls are, and positively aches to roll them around in his palm.

Pleasing his partner in bed (or in the office, as the case may be) has always been the number one turn on in Dean’s mind, their little gasps and the way their fists clench when he moves his tongue just right or glides his fingers over a particularly sensitive spot easily the fastest way to get him revved up.

Cas, though, is taking this to a ridiculously tactile other level, his gasps rougher than gravel and the way his breath half-hitches every couple minutes, like he’s barely holding himself back, like there’s something cosmic and dangerous inside him if he were to ever fully let himself go, is driving Dean up the wall, his mouth literally salivating for Cas’ dick.

“You good?” Dean murmurs into Cas’ abdomen, feeling the course grind of pubic hair against his chin as he sucks a completely juvenile hickey into the skin there.

Cas has one hand on his shoulder and one tangled in his hair and they both tighten impossibly, and Cas says, like the lights in his brain have blown out, “I’ve been ready since I fucking walked in.”

Dean chuckles, but also has to press his palm against the front of his jeans again, Cas’ sex voice fucked and hoarse and better than any hand could ever hope to be.

He takes a deep breath and pops the button on his jeans, blowing it out as the pressure on his dick recedes at least a little bit. He’s wound tighter than a screw and ready to pop like a jack in the box, so he figures it’s time to get this show on the road.

Without any further warning, he licks a stripe up the underside of Cas’ dick, and Cas practically bucks off the desk.

“ _Okay_ ,” he says, trying for non-chalance, but Dean can hear the shake in his voice. He smirks, wrapping his hands around Cas’ thighs like they’re the safety bars on a rollercoaster, and goes to town.

Cas falls back onto the desk, groaning, as Dean bobs up and down on his dick, relearning the technique. It’s similar to riding a bike, Dean thinks, in that it doesn’t really take too long for him to get back into the swing of things. Judging by the sounds Cas is making, he has no complaints, anyways. He reaches a hand up to cup Cas’ balls in his palm, rolls them around like he’s shaking a pair of dice at the craps table, tightens his other hand’s grip on Cas’ thigh.

A hand settles into his hair, gripping the short strands tightly, and Dean looks up to meet Cas’ glacial eyes staring at him like he’s the some sort of endangered species. He smiles around Cas’ cock, lapping his tongue cheekily close to the tip before moving forward again to feel the solid weight of it on his tongue. Cas sits up a little more, Dean can see his ab muscles working and flexing as he sits at an angle no human being should ever be able to maintain for any period of time, and moves his other hand to Dean’s shoulder, gripping tight.

“’atta boy,” Dean pulls off to say, even going so far as to shoot Cas a thumbs up with the fingers that had just been stroking the underside of his balls.

Cas bites his lip and shakes his head.

“You’re a dick,” he says, surprisingly fondly. Dean waggles his eyebrows and pointedly fists Cas’ dick a couple times.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cas acquiesces, “Are you gonna get back to work or not?”

It’s not really an order, but it stretches the coil inside Dean’s abdomen impossible tighter. If a partner gives him even the ghost of an order, he’s always more than happy to oblige.

“C’mere,” Dean pulls Cas up into a proper sitting position, directing Cas to wrap a hand around his own as he jacks him off, using the spit as lube. Cas has his hand wrapped around Dean’s hand wrapped around his cock, and absurdly, Dean thinks of all those movies where the guy lines the girl up to show her how to shoot pool or something, and muffles his laugh into the meat of Cas’ shoulder. He figures Cas probably doesn’t need lessons on how to stroke his own dick, but he also knows this is something that gets _him_ off as well, feeling his partner’s hand wrapped around his own as he pleasures them. He loves the feel of their sweaty palms as they try to keep their grip, loves the way Cas is sloppily marking up his neck as he gets closer to coming.

“Dean,” he gasps, voice wet with arousal, “Dean, let me--”

Dean laughs, interrupting him.

“No worries, man,” he says, directing Cas’ stare to his own leaking dick. “I’m right there with ya.”

Cas gurgles something that sounds annoyed, and then has his free hand jacking Dean. He grabs Dean’s other hand as well, and Dean gets the picture quick enough. They’re now mirror images of each other, each jerking the other off with their hands all tangled together, and it’s weirdly, tantalisingly intense. It’s like they’ve created their own little bubble world, hands focused and foreheads pressed together, and Dean thinks, wildly, that they’ve only known each other for a couple hours and _this is his place of business, for god’s sake_.

That much too sober thought is quickly vanquished as Cas does something phenomenal with his hand, and Dean does his best to imitate it for Cas. The position is a little awkward, sure, but it doesn’t seem to change the fact that Dean feels like his blood is boiling and firecrackers are being hurled through his body with little to no safety precautions.

Their mouths meet in a frantic kiss again, maybe a little too much tongue but it hardly matters by this point. They’re thrusting together now, jacking each other off in tandem, cocks brushing each time their combined fists head back towards the root, and it’s electric. The best Dean’s felt in a long time, this sex with someone he hardly knows. (A customer, no less.)

“Cas-” he warns lowly, just as he’s about to come, and like he can read his mind, Cas slides off the desk, practically shoves Dean across the room to slam him back into the wall, and breathes into his ear, “come for me, Dean,” and Dean does, vision practically whiting out and hearing going all wonky, coating both his and Cas’ hands, feeling like the breath is being punched out of him by a professional cage fighter. In the haze, he feels Cas come too, adding to the already fucking nasty mess that is their still joined hands, and their mouths are warring again, endorphins running impossibly higher, twisting together like a basket being woven, and then lips becoming slacker and slacker as they slowly come down, Dean sagging against the wall and Cas sagging against Dean. Dean feels like he’s just run a marathon.

They’re quiet for a while, each respectively gaining back their coherent thought processes.

“Wow,” Dean eventually says, knuckles grazing up and down Cas’ spine without his brain’s express permission.

“Huh,” Cas says.

“Sooo…” Dean’s hand stops on Cas’ back. “How’s the tattoo?”


End file.
